


What You Didn't Know About Andrew Ryan and Frank Fontaine

by noisystar



Category: BioShock
Genre: Character Study, Cute, Dysfunctional Relationships, Experimental Style, Fluff, Gen, Headcanon, Implied Relationships, M/M, Other, fontryan, rated T for Fontaine's mouth, rly cute pairing u guys c'mon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-02-19 05:14:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2376008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noisystar/pseuds/noisystar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short glimpse(S!!!! now plural!) of Ryan and Fontaine's short-lived, undisclosed relations, taking place sometime before 1958.</p><p>It makes so much sense now, doesn't it?</p><p>So far, these are random. There is a timeline, and these follow, but. I write them randomly. Writing exercises yay.</p><p>Because there needs to be more Ryan/Fontaine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Andrew Ryan and Frank Fontaine are Friends: Fontaine is Jealous and Ryan has an Adorable Temper

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired in part by prompt over at http://biotrash.dreamwidth.org/427.html?thread=4779#cmt4779 :>
> 
> So like I said, this is just an exercise really... a window into the background of Fontaine and Ryan before everything went to hell, because between Fontaine's arrival in Rapture, his ascent and eventual usurp of power, there is a substantial amount of time in which he and Ryan developed their star-crossed relationship. "He's the most dangerous type of hoodlum...the kind with vision." <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cute taking place probably c 1950 idk

Andrew Ryan wore his temper flamboyantly; it burned at the ridge of his curled lips, at the severe creases next to his patronizing eyes, and torched his sharp knuckles white. Frank Fontaine, for the first time in this setup, played spectator as Ryan swooped down on the bungled link in his devout “chain”--a chump rubbed raw from the pampering of his well-to-do parents, no doubt, if his thin-skinned frame of mind towards the the nature of business was any indication. 

“I do not sympathize for ineptitude, Mr. Wales.” Ryan gnashed each consonant between his teeth, and Fontaine imagined he would be spitting pins at the bloke if his mouth had not become a desert when his blood had begun to boil. “I will not have every man who encounters defecting customers come clamoring to me for what's nothing better than a write-off!” Fontaine watched quietly from his position behind the desk, leaning back languorously in Ryan's leather-bound chair. His thumb rested against his antagonistic smiling lips, arms crossed in front of him and one foot bobbing on the edge of Ryan's polished Ruhlman desk. He had a nearly perfect view from here; the desperation of Ryan's guest was as plain as empty pockets on a goose straight out of the slots, and Ryan was angled just so he could see the steam burning off from the side of his face.

The chump had been scraping a dry tongue into the neck of a long-empty bottle for at least ten minutes, curdling Ryan's humor with ill-pitched pleas. Unfortunately for him, Ryan was not an easy mark for last resorts. “Mr. Ryan, I promise I wouldn't be comin' to you if there were anythin' else for me,” Wales appealed, “but we worked closely once, and now I'm hurtin'. My work in architecture's left me, my brother's left me, and Rapture don't have anythin' else for me. Mr. Ryan, I'm comin' to you as a _partner_ \--”

“Yes, perhaps we were a coalition before, and you did bring my vision into physical manifestation.” Now Fontaine itched to see if the anger had drained from Ryan's face as it did now from his voice, but the man had shifted his back towards him when Wales' whimpering memoir became too trivial a test to his patience. “However, while you designed Rapture to stand on metal and obsidian, I designed Rapture to stand on emancipated commerce and the sovereignty of man.” Ryan's verse existed most caustically in the furnace of his temper; his inclination to poetic balance was a frustrating charm, and nearly every time Fontaine heard him get himself bent on his brass tacks credo, suddenly Fontaine would be slipping on floor polish. While Fontaine withheld a nauseous giggle, Ryan continued matter-of-factly; “You insist on producing faulty structure, and no one can share in your retribution.” The cliff of Ryan's cheek was a blanched rust color when it was turned tauntingly into the peak of Fontaine's view, the slant of a dark whisk of eyelash perched at the top and a rigid sculpt of mustache betraying an exclusive mouth. He was staring dismissively at a gelded Wales, if only for means of conveying just how much of a waste of time his visit was. “Mr. Wales, our discussion is over. If you would please take yourself out.” The smitten reeling in Fontaine's stomach, incited by the buttoned-up threat enfolded by Ryan's final words, was embittered, Fontaine realized, by jealousy. Ryan's temper was a thing stroked by Fontaine's bantering devilry; to see its manacles after this Daniel Wales was, sure as hell, a slump.

The pinched mutt Wales had the scrap to persist, however misplaced it was. “But- I put my feckin' life in this rotting basillica!” Ryan turned the shutter of his back to him as though he no longer existed, and Fontaine was intrigued by the stoic face that was revealed to him, uncreased by expression as it studied the pattern of wood in the desk, or the grooves in the floor. He said, at level, the name of one of his chief guards who typically spent the day flirting with reception outside the door, and as Daniel Wales was collected from the office, Ryan gradually disengaged his frigid eyes from the surface of his desk and looked at Fontaine with all the scorn he had supposedly abated with Wales moments ago.

The acrid contempt that brimmed from Ryan's temper provoked Fontaine's wide-eyed grin. “Here I was, thinking you learned a thing or two about being calm. Thinkin of fishies swimmin peacefully, and breathing air like it was booze,” Fontaine teased, the resentful snag in his stomach beginning to untangle. “But ya do pull off a pretty act.” The way Ryan contended against Fontaine with melodramatic ardor—as he made a point to broodingly pinch the toe of Fontaine's oxford before pushing it off the desk—made Fontaine wonder if it was ever Wales he was upset with at all.

“I have no qualms with Wales. It is an aggravating pity that he chose to come in at the time he did.” Ryan moved around the desk and met Fontaine's agog gaze with an indignant twist of his lips. “I expect he will not forget who he saw sitting like a _laggard derelict_ in my office.” 

Finally, a cackle leapt from Fontaine's thrown-back head, and he sprang out of the chair triumphantly, snapping his hands onto an alarmed Ryan's arms and pressing a grinning face toward him. “Some things can't change, can they!” His pitch undulated to a sharp excitement, the uncomfortable twist of his stomach now gone with his revelation. The besotted tension in Ryan's veins—it was always Fontaine, and Wales was goose eggs!

Releasing a screwy-faced Ryan, Fontaine pranced to the cabinet where Ryan stored his liquor and threw the doors open. As Fontaine filled two glasses in devious furor, Ryan smoothed the sleeves of his suit in discomposed contemplation, his teeth tarrying over possible arguments or a reproach to Fontaine's nonsensical outburst. Pointedly, Ryan strode across the office to an incessantly beaming Fontaine. He seized the proposed glass and drew himself vehemently close, his lips drawn so tightly together that his jutting mustache must have mingled for a tantalizing moment with the tightly-trimmed one on Fontaine. As he drew breath for retaliation, Fontaine held his. Heat quickly filled the small space between them, and then, Ryan relented; “Whatever.”


	2. Fontaine and Ryan are Manipulative, and it Confuses Everyone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fontaine and Ryan have a spat. This takes place probably 1956/5.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote some prose and then did dialogue around it lol and it's pretty raw but I really wanted to post it  
> because maybe there is someone out there who loves these guys as much as me :(

The room was cleared except for two and a slithering tension filled the vacated space wall-to-wall. The drop of the sealing mechanism in the door prompted Andrew to speak. “If I were not so wise to your predilection to play the part, I would believe you were avoiding me. Childish notion, I know.” It was a playful remark despite the hardened tone of a burdened Fifth avenue man; he even threw in a fanciful wave of his hand and became less of a suit.

Frank knew Andrew would be oblivious, but he did not anticipate the slimy sting that drove into his gut. It made him sick that Andrew had not figured it out yet. “You know Andy, I think every man's got their own trick at their belt, isn't that right? I screw around with your pretty head, make you believe I'm skirting your say-so, just to fuck with you. Can it, I know you like it when I fuck with you. And you... you, well, you got a gag for every one of your flunkies, right? Diane, Sullivan, Lamb, Sinclair... It's a smooth game, _right_?”

Andrew listened, and obliged Frank with resumed nerve. “A challenge to my rationality? Or an unsolicited opinion? Is this your morality, to degrade the pride of a man whose productivity frightens you?” 

“Fucking hell, you got those la-dee-da _lines_ memorized well enough? You suckle 'um all on your poetry, don't you? It's just too bad I can't stomach your lies.” 

He spit out the last pluck and Frank's estranged snarl trembled, the unfamiliar barbs of susceptibility tearing down his resolve in manic fervor. The proximity of the man he had seconds ago been slighting as part of his profound script to spill the man's marrow before the same could be attempted on him, had struck Frank in the face and now began to lay him open, one trembling lip at a time. A cursory brush of Andrew's gaze across Frank's mouth laid bare the foible. An undecided breath stayed all reaction, the next biting slander digging its claws into Fontaine's throat while a kind sweat cooled his vehemence.

A tentative gesture on Andrew's mouth poised for a moment while he waited for Fontaine's eyes to find his; then, Andrew speculated, “Where is your creativity today, Frank? What is it you want? What are you avoiding? Accusations of lying are tools of the doubter.” The trailing remark was Andrew's decisive weapon; a reprisal against Frank's unwarranted malice toward his philosophy _lines_ and a sardonic offense, to which Frank made to recompense as immediately as Andrew expected with a reflexive coil of his churlish tongue and a foreboding draw of his fist. Andrew would have none of it and his appetite for abusive banter was glutted. He promptly traded the inches of space between them for the warm press of a suit filled with a volatile body and invited himself to the breach of Frank's mouth. Andrew carried the momentum aggressively, the curve of his body following Frank's as the man lurched backwards, his nose bruising against the snug angle of Frank's cheek. His mouth had landed at the pleasant sweep of Frank's upper lip where warmth enveloped his mouth, and he kissed the prickle of Frank's mustache.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHAT does Fontaine think Ryan is lying about AND WHY, AS A ROTTEN LIAR HIMSELF, DOES HE CARE?!?! Is Frank kissing back?!?! Who was in the room before this scene?! WTF IS FONTAINE EVEN TALKING ABOUT?!
> 
> All this and more, coming from my head, at some point in the future.


	3. Fontaine and Ryan are Manipulative, and it Confuses Everyone Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fontaine and Ryan continue their spat. This takes place probably 1956/5.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This picks up exactly where the last chapter left off. It's all one piece. I just had to go to bed last night before I finished, but I really wanted to post it anyway so I did.

Frank was caged between the wall and Andrew's unrelenting embrace. The rough mouth that confined him simultaneously played sloppy on his wits—Diamonds was the day Andrew Ryan carried a torch and showed him some affection gratis. Committing to whimsy, Frank indulged in the rare kiss from Andrew Ryan, the insistence of Andrew's gestures a thing from cloud nine. After all the time Frank spent wooing this sheik and coming up with nothing but breezy glances and backseat bingo, Frank had thought he was in a dollar too deep for its worth; but now, as Andrew's mouth held amorously onto his maw and icy fingers lingered on the bare skin behind his ears, even the fresh notion of Andrew's betrayal could not be entertained.

“Ya bored of dancin to pride and reason?” Frank murmured against Andrew's mouth, getting a good taste of the bristles that framed it.

“I simply realize what it is that I desire... and what it costs. Frank Fontaine.” 

“You really know how to make a confession ring like a business transaction,” Frank jeered, reading the persistent press of Andrew's lips against his as an aggravated _Shut up_. Even when Andrew Ryan was kissing him nuts against the wall and with one sharp line twisting Frank into a sucker, Frank wanted to reach more, wanted to crack the prude egg and hear him breathe the screwy words that he kissed into his mouth; _I have waited for you, Frank Fontaine; I have shown a city how life is to be loved, and I love you more than life._

Frank dared to pull himself along the wall away from Andrew, shoddily evading ardent kisses until both of them had become snagged in the other's glare. Andrew appraised him with cozy eyes normally reserved for his beloved city, a city built on his convictions derived from man's needs. The erratic nature of Frank Fontaine held him in inexplicable intrigue, an intrigue that threatened his convictions and discovered an entirely new need. The waiting man before him was an irrational happiness, Andrew mused, that he, for all one knows, wanted.

A noise at the other end of the room gripped both men tense; the clamor of the door lock was lengthy enough that by the time the intruder entered, a painstaking gap had been made between Frank and Andrew. 

The bearded suit, Bill McDonagh, looked about until he found Andrew Ryan, noticed Fontaine with a concerned pull of his eyebrows, then addressed the urgency; “Mr. Ryan, it's that Sander girl, got a head on her like a busted cabbage. Tried ta handle her, sir, but I'm afraid she's about to start on the other boys.” 

Those three words— _that Sander girl_ —was everything necessary to bump off Frank's mood. He remembered his fury. He remembered Andrew Ryan's butchering lie. It was all in the dope plucked by that investigator, DeWitt. _“It didn't take a private investigator to know he's sleeping with one of the Eve's Garden girls.”_

“I see. Thank you, Bill. I will attend to the issue. Mr. Fontaine, excuse me.”

Frank dragged his hand across his jaw, peeling away abandoned kisses from the afflicted skin. “No more time for sentimentalities, Ryan.” As Andrew fussed over his askew tie and made for the door, Frank met his side and flared his fingers across Andrew's jaw as he passed--A fleeting affair that Frank greedily reclaimed once he had Ryan's attention. “No more runny eggs... from now on, they'll be comin in hard boiled.”

The warm, teal shadows in the passages of Rapture received Fontaine through the doorway as he abandoned the dreamt-up room and everything it contained.

Andrew Ryan stood in the middle of it, behind his barriers, denying the chase that tempted him. Bill McDonagh imparted a wary eye.

"Mind tellin' me what that was all about, Mr. Ryan?" Bill said.

He pulled back his sleeve to regard a watch, a weary and familiar gesture. "It has been a trying day. I feel I am a divided man, Bill... but to abandon your ambitions is to surrender. To work for any ambition but your own is to be a slave. I- let us talk later. For now, I will quell Miss Jolene."

Bill led him from the room, the concerned pull of his features readable even through the mass of beard. "Right. Why don't we talk about it over a pint?" 

They traipsed the halls of Rapture, hawk-eyed in an impenetrable cloudy sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this the climax of their relationship?! Some questions..answered?! But... why is Fontaine so bent up about "that Sander girl" ? Seriously, Fontaine?


	4. Stanley Poole is a FontainexRyan Fanboy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taking place uhhhh 1954 maybe…. In which Stanley has a brief, inspiring conversation with the Founder of Rapture.

Light streaming from the walls mingled with it partners on the dance floor—men and woman dressed with spectacular inflections of light. Perhaps the most eye-catching was the boisterous man in crisp red, his roving eyes as adventurous as the color. Since he had entered the grand party minutes earlier, a great many guests had found common excuses to brush against his path. The man was the father of plasmids, a coveted visionary of Rapture. Andrew Ryan had the squirming feeling that he was a black sheep in the flock of admirers; his corner of the hall was quickly becoming empty but for himself.

 

“That guy making you sweat, Mr. Ryan?” A nasally voice squeaked at his side. Andrew finished drawing on his drink before he glanced over the gangly, under-dressed man. “Don't mean to interrupt ya grind, Mr. Ryan, just an observation. Poole, sir. Name's Poole.” Andrew recognized the name, but had never before met the insider he had employed in confidence.

 

Andrew made a point of looking at the notebook and pen protruding from Poole's pocket. “An observation is a journalist's bread; am I wrong?” He was not unfriendly.

 

“Ha. Got me. Sir.” Poole fidgeted nervously, and somehow remained in the awkward space of Andrew Ryan's shadow. “I just, uh, wanted to point out... The chap I worked with, our mutual friend. Real charming, like a Casanova from 'Hook, Line, and Sinker', you know. Well he sees this other guy, and not just any guy but a ball of fire with a backstory of the savory stuff. So Sinc-- _Cas_ sees an opportunity, casts his line, and reels 'im in. Poor guy doesn't stand a chance, not against Perfect Steinman Teeth—heck, it gets _me_ weak in the knees. I might notta had much of a view, but you could see it in their eyes, could see that they were hit with some unexpected golden arrow, when Cas was givin' him _that look_. Then one day I just see him, Cas, alone. Lookin' beat. And I know why—he saw an opportunity. There's people wanna put out fireballs, and they pay out to make it happen. You know what I mean? Mr. Ryan, all I'm sayin' is, that look you were givin' Mr. Fontaine over there, well, it was the same look in Cas's eyes, when he was with his fireball.” Poole finally took a breath, but Andrew had no inclination to provide a response. Poole licked his lips. “Just, uh, I'm not a mushy type, but a reporter ain't all cold feelings. Seems a shame to see it happen again. Well, see ya around, Mr. Ryan.” Poole grinned sheepishly and tapped the trigger of his camera in demonstration. He left, and Andrew looked across the hall, austere, until he found the man in red, who met his far-flung gaze and awarded him a clandestine smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case you didn't catch it, there's a SinclairxDelta cameo <3 lolololol
> 
> ok so


	5. First Date Pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes place early on, probably just a tad after that audio diary "Offer a Better Product", cuz they're just getting to know each other ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, first line starts out right in the middle, as though this is missing an introduction into this scene. Yeah, I couldn't be bothered with that. Just go with it dudes.
> 
>  
> 
> One of a bunch of pieces that have been lying around that I want to revisit! I feel like if I post it I might somehow find more time to be able to continue haha.

“Why don't you go get us some popcorn?” Fontaine angled a grin over his shoulder at the boy scout, behind it all the teeth of a threat. Oleksiy held fast his step and Fontaine's stare, returning it with a solemn grimace, silently conveying his dilemma: _I either listen to you, my wife is safe but we're on the streets—or I keep my job and find my wife unplugged and dead in her hospital bed, isn't that right?_

 

His legitimate boss alleviated Oleksiy's concern; “Fine, that's fine. Bring plenty of napkins. Popcorn...” Ryan glanced back at Fontaine in amusement and with aversion curling his lips. “I would ask why _popcorn_ , but it is _your_ fingers you will be dipping in a bucket of grease, not mine.” Oleksiy did not move, staring glassy-eyed at the two men as they walked down the row of seats. “Oh go on,” Ryan said when he noticed his bodyguard's reluctance. “The theatre is empty.” He turned to Fontaine; “Oleksiy is very devoted to his job, sometimes too devoted--” Ryan waited until Oleksiy had disappeared before continuing, “--It is unfortunate that his ambition just –stops-- there, at his position as a servant, as though he has not the will to know how the happiness of self-reliant conquest feels.”

 

Fontaine pressed Ryan forward, who had been idle in their course to seats. He answered with a grin, entertaining Ryan's tangent; “They're not all built to be Rockefellers.”

 

Ryan chided in return; “Oh, yes, Rockefeller, the man who lined the nests of the impoverished and unemployed with wads of his money in the name of _charity_ and the _people_. That type of _philanthropy_ only lets them feel secure and comfortable in their pilfered lifestyles.”

 

“What are you, a broken record player? You sound as though you've been on one too many _Journeys to the Surface_ \-- ' _But the parasite says...'_ ” Fontaine laughed, clapping Ryan on the back. Ryan looked utterly appalled. “Relax pal. But eighty-six the hard stuff, your _No Gods or Kings_ mumbo. Sit. And watch the film.” Choosing a seat in the center of the row, Fontaine coerced Ryan down and took the seat next to him, stretching his legs out and sprawling his arms over the armrests. Ryan eyed the hand that drifted well into the borders of his seat as though he could pluck it up in the spikes of his gaze and remove it.

 

“You are right... that amusement park seems to make a mockery of the very doctrine that Rapture was built upon. Perhaps I--”

 

“ _Hey hey hey!_ ” Fontaine veered into Ryan's seat, leaning over the armrest and shoving his sharp nose up to Ryan's face like a knife held by an uncompromising sneer. Amazed, Ryan resisted the impulse to retreat, mirroring Fontaine's annoyance. “Remember what I said? I don't wanna hear anythin' about _doctrines_ or whatever ruffles your feathers. Maybe you better stop surrounding yourself with junkies who echo your every eggheaded jive, who scrape up crumbs of nose candy from your footsteps. I thought that clunky metal-head double of yours sitting in Park Amusements was the only hollow-brain called Andrew Ryan-- but oh well, anyone can go nuts when nobody does nothin' but regurgitate his own brainwash.”

 

Somewhere in the fit of Fontaine's heavy-lipped speech, spit had been sprayed and now hung onto the ends of Ryan's mustache. With the grave movement of a man who acquiesced to a wretched task, Ryan raised his hand between his face and Fontaine's and with his fingers swabbed the spittle from his mustache. In the theatre, the lights dimmed and the big screen flickered with motion. A tremor passed through Fontaine's tightly-screwed face, as though the thought had occurred to him that he had figuratively crossed too far into Ryan's seat. Then the corners of his lips flicked up with amusement.

 

“While we are being... _frank_ ,” Ryan mused, “I could point out that those 'junkies', as you call them, are well-educated and have decided on their own philosophies long before they came here. Which brings me to the question... What are _you_ doing here, Frank Fontaine? You rode on the Rapture philosophy to get here, or else I would not have extended the invitation. However, you have made it obvious that you abhor the sound of those very ideals... So, I ask again: What _are_ you doing in Rapture?”

 

The opening orchestra filled the theatre while moving shapes of light projected onto the screen cast the profiles of Andrew Ryan and Frank Fontaine into flickering apparitions. Ryan watched Fontaine's unflinching face attentively yet still missed the transition when it flickered into vehement and smiling.

 

Fontaine relaxed back into his seat, chuckling, as though it had all been a dull joke. His words became meshed in the film's instrumental; “Think of me as the Devil's Advocate.”

 

Oleksiy came noisily into the theatre and shuffled over to Fontaine and Ryan. “Ah, thanks Bobby, you're a sport,” Fontaine beamed, taking the bucket of popcorn. “Hold up--” He said as Oleksiy began to sit next to Ryan; “C'mon, give us some breathin' room. Make yourself comfortable a few rows down that way.”

 

Oleksiy glared at Fontaine and folded his hands in his lap. Ryan looked incredulous, staring at a piece of popcorn that had fallen on his coat. He picked it off and dropped it back into the bucket, impartial to Fontaine's demand. Fontaine grinned at Oleksiy and leaned towards him over Ryan's armrest. Without haste, Oleksiy rose and waddled through the row of seats. Meanwhile Ryan found a spot on the lapel of Fontaine's coat to situate two fingers and press him back into his own seat. Fontaine's smile resumed in its attendance to Ryan. “Playing coy, Ryan, or are you this difficult to entertain?”

 

Ryan snorted, “You are not doing a very convincing job of _entertaining_.”

 

“I brought ya to the cinema. It's where all the blue bloods go. Just watch the damn film.”

 

 

An amount of time passed in which they watched the fluttering pictures of _One Hour With You._ The popcorn gradually dissolved, and Ryan stopped noticing Fontaine's intruding arm.

 

“Films are farces of theatre...” Ryan said thoughtfully. “Nothing but inadequate stage actors cutting and patching their recordings with technology to portray a caricature of drama.”

 

Fontaine promptly dropped the near-empty bucket of popcorn on the floor, as though he had been expecting Ryan's sharp-tongued conjecture. “Alright, Ryan! Fine by me, let's push off!” He grabbed Ryan's wrist and pulled him out of his seat.

 

“What?” Ryan said as he found footing.

 

“C'mon _Red,_ we're ditching this place.”

 

Ryan scowled. “Allow me to ignore the -inadvertent- Soviet offense, and instead remind you that we are two adults, not _children_ who _ditch!_ ”

 

Fontaine's hands crawled up Ryan's arm as he eyed the back of Oleksiy's head and said quietly, “Yeah, you're a decade older than me and you're being tailed by a nanny. C'mon.”

 

“You're not serious-- Fontaine!” Despite his outward objection, Ryan found himself hushing his voice as Fontaine propelled him through the back of the theatre and out into the dimmed, after-hours streets of Cameron Suites.

 

“Well, what destination do you have in mind, if any?” Ryan asked once he had his hand back and looked admiringly at the architecture of the Suites. “I had the itching notion that you did not want to be seen with Andrew Ryan by the public.”

 

“I ain't gonna be seen with Andrew Ryan,” Fontaine said conspiratorially, and when Ryan turned to him with a mix of query and trepidation, he was seized suddenly by a pair of strong hands; as Ryan fluttered in disconcertion, his suit coat was thrown off of him and his hair scrubbed into maelstrom under Fontaine's hand.

 

“ _What are you--_ Fontaine! What is the meaning of this?” Ryan slapped the hands away but Fontaine followed as quickly as he retreated.

 

Fontaine plucked at Ryan's necktie and collar, giving it a lackadaisical effect, before shedding his own coat. “What you need is a night sans title of Andrew Ryan. Good thing Lady Luck's gonna be with you tonight—and you can call her Frank.”

 

Frank stepped back to admire his handiwork, and Ryan found that his better judgement was shrugging under that admiring look.


	6. Movie Date Pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fontaine whisks Ryan away into the strange world of Rapture nightlife, and things are said that cannot be unsaid.

Several descending staircases, a short trip on the Atlantic Express (riding coach, as Fontaine insisted) and a jaunt into a darkened corridor at the bidding of Fontaine's cosseting arm put the two in front of a tall but unremarkable door. It was cloistered behind narrow twists of hallways and nearly out of reach of Rapture's central lighting; pieced together in the dark slope at the top of the door were brick letters that sparkled as though combined with some metallic ore. The letters spelled _The Timaeus_.

Fontaine swiped a grin over his shoulder as he knocked on the door. Ryan was scowling with reproach.

“Foxing me away from my bodyguard and leading me to a remote, shady location? You can see how this does not excite me,” Ryan warned. As though to renounce his part in going along, Ryan licked the tips of his fingers and began to smooth down his hair into something more presentable than an Errol Flynn jungle. 

Fontaine had an exchange with a voice on the other side of a narrow window before turning to Ryan. “Finally feeling the weight of that crown?” Fontaine quipped, moving to capture Ryan's arm before he could leave, “Don't kick me in the teeth yet over your king's paranoia. Ah-ah--” Fontaine hushed Ryan's reprisal with a commanding wave of his finger; “Learn to take a joke. Remember, you ain't gonna be Andrew Ryan.” Fontaine's hand plunged into the heavy array of Ryan's hair, his fingers nudging it into wavy, youthful shapes and, extraneously, petting his head. The way Fontaine grinned over his lower lip tucked under a row of teeth incited the peeking of a smirk from Ryan, which was quickly screwed up by self-disgust. Fontaine soothed, “The only people here who will give a hoot about you are swingers who have a thing for stony old gaffers.”

Ryan, flustered and grasping at quiet dignity, ducked away from Fontaine and looked gravely down his nose. “How facetious,” He muttered. “The idea that an altered hairstyle alone could make someone unrecognizable is absurd... What is that?” Fontaine had returned to the private window in the door and now turned back to Ryan with something in hand.

Fontaine held Ryan under an enticing smile as he raised one of the objects towards Ryan's face. “Your new identity.”

 

 

* * *

Inside _The Timaeus_ , the ceilings were high and cavernous and metal bars spiked up erratically from the floor as though the area was meant to be a foundational structure. There were no windows to the ocean here; the only illumination came from globes of different sizes and colors scattered throughout, leaving a proliferation of shadows. Music that teetered between the irregular beats of ragtime and fast-paced jazz filled the infinite space above the heads of crowded minglers. Fontaine bounced smoothly into the atmosphere; behind him, Ryan looked squeamish. 

The chimerical mask that Fontaine had tied onto Ryan's face must have been the key appeal of the enterprise. The shape of it arced over his nose and rose up into a halo of curled spikes. Its colors were liberal with vibrance; gold, turquoise, indigo, crimson, and black created an astral likeness of a lion. Ryan could tell the lion's mask appealed to Fontaine's ironic sense of humor.

All the other patrons wore similarly celestial-inspired masks; crabs, goats, fish, rams, bulls, scorpions, and ones of surreal faces from judicial scales with the illusion of blinded eyes, curling waves of water, the mirror-face of twins, and a flowery glyph in the purity of sapphire to represent Virgo--signs of the Greek Zodiac.

Fontaine had assumed the identity of Sagittarius, his mask a lurid violet that framed his eyes under a malevolent brow. Golden antlers, wrapped in rose-colored fractals, plumed the crest of the mask. His hand, normal and human, wrapped with the tenacity of a hoof around Ryan's wrist as they traveled through the throng of creatures. 

They emerged upon the counter of a bar, and as Fontaine leaned over it he pulled Ryan into the groove left between himself and the stool—to keep him from the violent current of the crowd, assuredly. 

“Hey! Get me two Gin Martinis!” Fontaine barked with some level of impatience; then his voice was rumbling privately against Ryan's ear, the silk snout of his mask furrowing into his hair. “You weren't hoping for a fruity cocktail, were you?” Ryan imagined Fontaine's smirk crawling over his ear.

“What is the game of this establishment?” Ryan interrogated as though he knew the answer to be something moronic. He turned his head to look through the carved-out eyes of the masks to Fontaine's conniving gaze. “Why all the clever measures for obscurity? The secluded location, the masquerade theme. All appeals to degenerates with something to hide...”

Fontaine may have rolled his eyes, but a voice distracted the two of them. “Here you are fellas-- is that you, Mr. Fontaine?” A bartender with the mask of a scorpion craned her neck to look at Fontaine as she slid two Martinis over the counter. “Naw, can't be you, you devil!” 

This time, the roll of his eyes was apparent even in his voice. “Shuddup kid,” Fontaine picked up both drinks and nudged one persistently into Ryan's hand before drinking his own.

“Oh, shit,” The Scorpio muttered. “Sorry, I know I'm not supposed to use names here.” She looked at Ryan then smiled at Fontaine as though in conspiracy. “He looks green as if you just picked him out of Arcadia! You're quite a cookie, Mr. Leo.” Ryan afforded her a conventional nod before her mouth continued; Fontaine looked annoyed. “So you like it here? Nice spot for people to mix up and have a bit of fun. Sure you could go to places like Siren Alley or Fort Frolic, but they has them judgmental types. That's why everyone wears masks... and, well, also so people like us can...” She pointed suggestively at Ryan and then Fontaine, raising her eyebrows and gesturing as though to indicate she knew exactly what sort of things they did in the bedroom. “...Can't be too sure what people still callin' it a mental disease, or what Andrew Ryan and his inner circle might do about it. Scary for people like us out there.” 

“Pardon, what exactly are you--” Ryan began, but Fontaine had a skill for intervening.

“Don't you have booze to pour? I could use a top-off.” Fontaine scoffed as he dropped his glass on the counter and the bartender hurried off to comply. He was skillfully avoiding Ryan's barbed eyes.

Ryan tapped his glass pensively, as though deciding on a choice of words. “I am not a juvenile, Fontaine...” His voice seemed to teeter between frustration and mockery, “A romp in a gay bar, is this? A poor choice of venue when you know I find cocktail parties insufferable, and I am not going to entertain this morbid flight of fancy of yours. You have left me disappointed.”

Fontaine's shoulders started to bounce, and Ryan realized he was laughing.

“What do I gotta do to loosen up your laces!” Fontaine crowed and unfurled an arm over Ryan's shoulders, who was having trouble maintaining his stoic quality. “Don't you get it? The people here – they're the ones we're bopping with in the daylight. Industry men, capitalists, Aces of our kind.” - He spoke Ryan's language. “But you know, once you scratch one itch, there's always another... And this place let's 'um scratch. It's namesake— _Timaeus_ \--is some Greek philosophy tale cooked up to try and make sense of the universe. It was written to cover ever detail of _why_ and _how_ , but it's made of wet ideas, full of holes. These people think they can make sense of what ain't meant to be made sense of. There's always something hiding below the surface. And the masks... well, everyone has something to hide, even next to others hiding in the same place.”

“I have nothing to hide.”

“You don't...?”

A moment's hesitation broke Ryan's composure, and Fontaine was quick to snap up the unintentional tell with a wolfish grin that turned victoriously away in closure.

“Finish the drink you cold fish. I'll show you something a little more up your alley.”

Ryan peered at him with doubtful curiosity over the rim of his glass. Then a tray of cigars was shoved between them along with a familiarly meddlesome chittering. 

“A B.T.A. before you hoof it on the dance floor?” The Scorpio bartender leaned far over the counter to stretch the tray of cigars out between them.

As though realizing something amiss, Ryan leered scrutinizingly at the cigars. “What did you call these...?” Fontaine seized two cigars in furor from under Ryan's hovering nose, cut the tips and placed both between his teeth. Ryan watched him with an expression undecided between astonishment and distaste as Fontaine offered the tips of the cigars to a flame that sprouted from the snap of the bartender's bare fingers.

He puffed alternately on the cigars, as if to warm them up and even them out, before turning one over to Ryan. “Best cigars in Rapture,” Fontaine said. “No poison, I checked.”

“I have had enough of your flippant attitude,” Ryan said, ignoring the cigar. He had the appearance of a deer in headlights, a rat scrambling to hide in a room with no holes, and a grouchy lame lion. “I am not staying in this undignified place any longer. Good evening.”

Ryan shoved away from the bar and disappeared immediately in the throng of hoofers and noise. “What?” The cigar nearly fell from Fontaine's slackened jaw. “Andr- Fuck!” 

“Huh. You better get your boyfriend before he gets lost,” The Scorpio bartender said.

Fontaine hesitated on a forward stride, then swung back to the counter. “Get me one of that new Gene Tonic,” He growled.

“What? Really? I thought you were waiting to release it until after some more testing.”

“Just get me the damn thing!” 

“Yes sir!” She hurried through a door labeled _Employees Only_ , and Fontaine looked back to the dance floor, grinding impatience between his teeth.

In the throes of _The Timaeus_ , Ryan discovered navigation was not easy without Fontaine. Batterings of monstrous faces attached to sharp-edged shoulders swam against him, hands clawed at him and mouths droned into his ears; he had no sense of direction but forwards. He did not waste the effort on any verbal demands, and he was quick to regret leaving the range of his aggressive bodyguard.

He wedged himself through brutish Tauruses, cackling Pisces, taunting Leos who raised brassy eyebrows at him; then, abruptly, emerging from the clash of churlish beasts, a violet face crowned in antlers ascended into his path. He snatched Ryan against him and muscled him backwards until he was pressed onto a wall. 

Ryan sunk into the coercive grip of the man in the violent purple mask. He said in the manner of a sigh of relief, “What has gotten into you?”

The snout of Fontaine's mask grappled against the nose of Ryan's, and below it his mouth hissed, “This isn't exactly how I saw this going, but it's all the same payoff in the end.” He fumbled with something in his hand and before Ryan got a look at it, the thing was piercing into his arm. A syringe. Fontaine dropped his forehead against Ryan's and held him in place as the man cringed. “That thing I was gonna show you? New business endeavor for Futuristics, a new Gene Tonic. I'm gonna market it as a social tool, for deadbeats who need to open up. Or, more usefully, for suspicious spouses to use on their partners as a truth serum.”

Under him, Ryan was squirming and grimacing. “Bring me... back...” He managed painfully, the veins in his neck pulsing and blooming with a bizarre crackle of color. 

“Nah. It is a shame it had to be this way. But time is money, even though I was enjoying the game. You're as naive as a kitten under that mask.”

Ryan was becoming heavier and having trouble keeping his eyes open. Fontaine curled his arms around him to keep him braced between himself and the wall. “The... cigars. _Between-the-Acts_. They're from the surface...”

Fontaine laughed wickedly, the heavy noise ruffling Ryan's mustache. “I thought you mighta noticed! They might be... Can't tell you that though. Still not sure how the Tonic works... Last batch had a thing for making the subjects forget the past 18 hours. I'll keep my fingers crossed for this one. Hey? Are you hearing me?”

The next moment, Fontaine was being dragged to the ground by a sleeping Ryan. Fontaine struggled to heave the man back up, but it was a losing battle. “Damn it, wake up! Snap out of it! ...Fuck.”

 

 

* * *

A few SportBoosted meatheads and a headache later, Fontaine was sitting on a couch in a private lounge next to an awakened Andrew Ryan. Unlike the rest of the club, it was brightly lit and quiet except for the soft hum of a phonograph in the back. Their masks were discarded on the coffee table next to a carafe of whiskey.

“Here, have another drink. You nearly cracked your head open like an egg.” Fontaine said and reached a tumbler out to Ryan with a fanciful smile.

“It is odd that I cannot recall...” Ryan accepted the drink and mulled over it, rubbing his fingers over the glass.

“Ah, forget about it. Happens with age, right?” Fontaine tied up a chuckle when Ryan only peered more deliberately at his drink. “Aren't you gonna thank me? I was there to wipe your yolk up off the floor before you got stomped by a bunch of swiggers.”

To Fontaine's surprise, a smile pulled at the ends of Ryan's lips and hung there, like an awkward visitor. “You are my own Goethe.”

Fontaine frowned. “Your what?”

“Goethe. He was a poet and an influential mind of the 18th century.”

Fontaine took a sip of his drink and wrinkled his nose. “So I'm a bunch of flowery lines to you?”

“No...” Ryan said contemplatively. “I don't know what I meant by that.” He shrugged. “He is a man I admire.”

Grinning wide, Fontaine leaned buoyantly over towards Ryan. “What else do you have to say about me?” 

Ryan looked at Fontaine as though he was something completely enigmatic. “You... are a... I don't know. The word eludes me.”

Fontaine leaned back into the cushions. “Then talk to me about Ryan Industries. That's one topic I know you have plenty of words for.”

“What good is competition if I give you insider convenience?” Ryan said in a critical voice, and adversely his lips began to pull into a smile again. He raised a hand to his mouth to cover it, as though puzzled or embarrassed by it. 

Fontaine's gaze flicked from Ryan's mouth to his eyes restlessly. “I know you like our market games but you must be dying to tell me what you are hiding behind all that heavy security.” 

Mistily, Ryan replied, “Yes... How very poetic of you.”

“Huh?”

“What am I hiding... Hmm.”

Fontaine scooted close to Ryan, his mind still on company trade secrets. “Impress me.”

Ryan's throat thrummed with an uncharacteristic chuckle. “That word for you that I could not think of before. I know it. You are a challenge.”

“I'm what?” Fontaine grunted in dissatisfaction.

Ryan looked at Fontaine evenly over the bridge of their shoulders. “I have survived the oppressive utilitarianism of government. I have overcome the moral ideals of society that meant to strip my wealth. I have escaped a self-destructive world. I have built a city. I have achieved my greatest ambitions.”

Fontaine groaned and finished off his drink. “I'd like to think of myself as a patient guy but when will you run out of gas?” 

Gingerly, Ryan set his glass on the table then turned to face Fontaine, positioning his chin so far over Fontaine's shoulder that Fontaine was afraid to turn his head should he compromise the integrity of personal space.

“I have served every highest ambition. I was fulfilled. For a while, I thought, this is release. This must be what fulfillment is.” Ryan had drifted far enough away that Fontaine could turn to look at him at level, but the look on Ryan's face was shocking. It was sly and covetous. “I could go on... I could tell you that relationships have never been a thing of interest for me. I have never been with a women that I could say invoked passion in me, not in the way my business does, the way progressing towards a goal does.” 

There was a bated emotion stirring under the stunned expression on Fontaine's face. Ryan continued.

“Now you enter... a spontaneous, vulgar, yet accomplished visionary. I do not know what it is yet that intrigues me. But I do know this, and as an honest man I will admit, that for the entirety of the evening I have been avoiding being intrigued. Why would I avoid it? To seek out the unknown is a value... it is an obligation.” 

Fontaine was very conscious of the length of Ryan's mustache, the way it was trimmed expertly to graze the top of his lip and formed into a neat geometric shape. He was suddenly feeling uncomfortably warm, but he was ignoring the sick churning in his stomach and gritting his teeth in defiance of the feeling that became a thunderous roar in his head - _panic_.

Suddenly Ryan's fingers were on Fontaine's cheek, and Fontaine twisted a nervous twitch of his lips into a pinched smile.

“Now I know this, Frank Fontaine: You are a new ambition.”

Ryan pressed against him, and his nose tapped the tip of Fontaine's before brushing down into the valley between his nose and the curve of his cheek. Fontaine caught a fleeting taste of Ryan's mustache on his lip, and Ryan's eyelashes swept downwards as he closed his eyes - 

Fontaine shoved Ryan back but curled his hands into fists into the front of his shirt, his eyes wild. “It ain't supposed to be like this. This should be easy scratch, not this fucking cock-eyed run-around!” He was not looking at Ryan, berating himself. “I need a second... I need a different angle.”

Ryan tilted his head, his eyes hazy. “Are you telling me that all that courting was just a big show? Are you all bark and no bite, my friend?” 

“Shut up. I don't want to hear it anymore. I don't want your secrets right now, keep 'um.” Fontaine released him and rose to his feet, heading towards the door. Suddenly, he stopped and spun back around, undecided. “This is fucking nuts! I could make you spill! I could get all the secrets of the city, and all I'd have to do is get on my fucking knees!”

Ryan fought to comprehend - an effect of the Gene Tonic. “What are you going on about? Come here, sit. Have we not played this game enough tonight?”

When Fontaine remained unmoving, Ryan rose from the couch and stepped towards him. “Frank...”

At the cue of his name, Fontaine threw a fist into Ryan's face. The man fell back and sprawled out across the floor, unconscious.

He wrenched open the door and instructed the guards who stood there; “Get the anti-Tonic, and get me an Accu-Vox. I need to send a message to Dr. Tenenbaum. I want her to dump all those new Gene Tonics. I want them gone!” 

After some time, and the antidote administered, Fontaine collected Ryan and positioned the lion mask onto his face. He bore the weight of him alone through the most uninhabited corridors of Rapture at midnight, although Ryan was conscious enough to stumble along with Fontaine as his crutch. He seemed to be disconnected – trapped in a long stir from the drug-like effects of the Gene Tonic.

“Where are we... Frank? When did we get...?” 

“Hm. Shut your trap. We're taking your ass home.”

Ryan was quiet. Then-

“I have never felt quite so sick. What did I eat?”

Fontaine sighed loudly. “Popcorn.”

“What would have convinced me to eat _popcorn_? Perhaps, Frank, you are a bad influence.”

“I'd say the same about you,” Fontaine muttered.

Ryan leaned lethargically against Fontaine and said in a hushed voice, “Maybe I do like popcorn.”

Fontaine pursed his lips and rolled his eyes irritably away from Ryan. He coerced him along, back towards the movie theater.

“Shall we schedule the next date?” Ryan said matter-of-factly, his mouth swaying within range of Fontaine's ear lobe. 

Amidst his heated agitation, Fontaine managed a bitter grin. “I really turned you into something else. You ain't Andrew Ryan. Too bad it all went belly up. Just remember this ain't done yet.”

“No,” Ryan murmured, “It will not be done until I have achieved you, in the way of an ambition.”

“Shuddup,” Fontaine grumbled, his face red, as they arrived to the back of the theatre, where he promptly kicked the door open and shuffled in until Oleksiy noticed them.

The bodyguard had ordered the theatre continue playing film reels one after the other, that Mr. Andrew Ryan had requested it, that he did not wish to be disturbed. Oleksiy, distraught at the sight of his boss, hurriedly gathered Ryan under the support of his well-abled musculature while Fontaine intimidated him out of asking for details. “Just stick him in a bed, he's a tired old man. And hey, I'll make sure your sick lil' dolly gets her helping of ADAM for the week, bub.”

After departure, Fontaine dragged himself back to his place, where he thrust himself into a bath of vodka and whiskey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this got a lot more intense than I had originally started this as haha. and it's also the most lazy thing I have written in all the bioshock stuff i've done. but here you go <3

**Author's Note:**

> Any critique will be well-received!


End file.
